News of our divorce caused a stir in our social circle.

After all, we'd been considered the model couple among our friends.

We'd gone from college sweethearts to marriage, surrounded by well-wishers.

But this time, I didn't want to give in to Julian.

As for Julian—he was too proud to care.

Divorce wasn't as painful as I'd expected. I went home, slept for a few days, and actually felt okay.

Once Julian's things were cleared out, the apartment felt bigger. Emptier, but breathable.

I started running in the mornings. Picked up a pottery class my friend had been nagging me about. Ate meals I actually wanted instead of whatever was fastest.

Mom called every day, trying not to sound worried.

"Are you eating? Are you sleeping?"

"Yes, Mom. I'm fine."

"You can come home anytime."

"I know."

Leo texted me once—casual, no pressure. Just a photo of a ridiculous street sign he'd seen: "WRIGHT WAY → WRONG WAY."

"Thought you'd appreciate the irony," he wrote.

I laughed. Actually laughed.

I didn't hear from Julian. Not once.

His student Ethan messaged me occasionally with lab gossip, probably hoping to play matchmaker.

"Professor Wright hasn't smiled in two weeks."

"He keeps staring at his phone during meetings."

"He asked me if I knew a good florist, then said never mind."

I read every message. Replied to none.

Because I'd spent years reading Julian's silences, searching for love in the gaps. I wasn't going to do it anymore.

If he had something to say, he could say it.

Two weeks passed. Then a month.

Then I got the call.

"Mrs. Wright? This is Mercy General. Your husband—"

"Ex-husband."

"…Your ex-husband has been in a car accident."